Dream A Little Dream
by petrelli heiress
Summary: Claire writes a novel the events of which might be real, although she really hopes they're not. Maybe. Crack. Also, slash, so don't like, don't read.


**Dream A Little Dream**

**Characters/Pairings: Claire, Peter/Sylar, Lyle, Noah Bennet, Matt, Mohinder, Tracy, Angela, Micah, Gretchen, implied Claire/Gretchen**

**Author's Note: The more I look at this, the more I realise that this is one of those story-within-a-story-within-a-story-within-a-story...stories. Hmm. I don't really know where this came from. I was in a random cracky mood, I guess. Dedicated to a friend, who helped with the title. **

**Warning/Spoilers: Crack. Slash. Very odd dreams. Boys being boys. No spoilers, I don't think. Unless you count what Sylar does as punishment for telling the world the way she did, because then SPOILER. Tiny, vague, if you blink, you'll miss it, etc, etc. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. Or anything except the plot of this fic (and that's weird enough as it is).**

* * *

_...and then there was nothing but them, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and comfortable silence. All was as it should be._

Claire sat back with a sigh, her view of the computer screen slightly hazy as she wallowed in the feeling of finally having completed the monster of a story. It was only a rough draft, of course, and it definitely needed a going over by someone with an eye for these kinds of details, for typos and misspellings, corrections to both grammar and punctuation. She would go over it herself, to be sure, but she'd inevitably miss a few very important mistakes.

She chewed on her lower lip, a minor frown crinkling her brow. But who could she send it to, that was the question. Peter was out of the question, as was Dad, and nf fact everyone she knew. Well, okay. Maybe not everyone. Lyle...

Her frown deepened. He'd laugh at her, and anyway it would be terribly embarrassing for her brother – _younger brother _– to read this. There were, well, naughty bits (she winced – _naughty bits_? Why could she just come out and say _sex scenes_? Because she failed at life so badly, that's why), and some of the characters might seem a little too...familiar.

It wasn't an autobiography, not at all. Pure and complete fiction, she'd insist on that to anyone who asked. Okay, so maybe the main characters resembled people in her life a little too much – she should probably work on that (it didn't help that she'd looked at pictures of these people and written down their description before specifically using them in her novel). But she was sure - not absolutely sure, but sure enough – that none of the events depicted had ever happened. Or at least she hoped not. Or, well, maybe a part of her did, but it was small and easily squashed whenever it dared show itself.

She looked at the screen, especially that blinking cursor, and mumbled a few choice curse words. Then she put on Green Day's _Give Me Novocaine _and buried her head in her hands. Great, just great. She'd finally finished the novel she'd been writing for _two whole years _and now she was too chicken to give it to anyone to read. Brilliant.

"Fuck my life," she said. A voice in the back of her head replied, _Don't tempt the universe, Claire. _

She hoped it wasn't too late to retract her previous statement.

_Meanwhile..._

"Mmm," Peter said, pulling away from a kiss that scrambled up his brain real good.

Sylar stared up at him, his arms wrapped tightly around the other man. "Mmm what?"

"Mmm, you taste real nice." Peter expanded on his previous statement with the addition of an amused roll of his eyes. He poked Sylar in the chest as the other man instantly scowled at his words. "And you take that compliment with a smile, do you hear? I don't want any of this..." His thumb grazed over Sylar's scowling mouth, and he grinned at the shiver it created. When Sylar managed to shift his scowl into a very unbelievable happy smile (it resembled a grimace more than anything else), Peter added, "...and none of that either. Smile like you mean it!"

"Shut up," Sylar mumbled, and pulled Peter into another kiss, effectively shutting him up. But, as Sylar knew from experience (and a hell of a lot of it, too), this wouldn't be the end of it. Peter could be very stubborn when he wanted to be.

Peter pulled away to say, "Don't think you're off the hook just yet," but Sylar kissed him again and he decided to let the matter rest. It wasn't often that they managed to spend time together, what with the frequent separate missions, the numerous villains (up to #67182 at last count) who all thought they were more intelligent than the last, and a million, billion other things too trivial or too complicated to state. Also, the fact that Sylar being his boyfriend (lover? Whatever) was supposed to be a Big Secret meant they both acted differently whenever other people were nearby.

He sighed, and Sylar pulled back, frowning momentarily. "What is it, Peter?" he asked. Peter stroked a finger over his cheek and along his jaw line.

"Nothing." Peter sighed again, but leaned down to continue where he'd left off.

It was Sylar's turn to pull back. "Peter, what have I told you about lying?"

Peter scrunched up his face in mock concentration. "It makes you tingle?" he hazarded, even though he knew exactly what Sylar was talking about (well, he should, they'd known each other for countless years).

Sylar nodded.

Peter, who had developed an affinity for sighing over the years, sighed yet again, this time burying his face in Sylar's chest. He mumbled appreciatively against the other man's skin when Sylar began to pet at his hair. "Why does this have to be a secret?" he asked finally.

He glanced up to find Sylar had developed a fascination with the ceiling. "Because they wouldn't understand."

"It's been six years!" Peter shook his head slightly. "I think if they don't understand by now, they probably never will."

"Then they probably never will," Sylar repeated the words back to him, in that overly pessimistic tone he sometimes used. Peter found it both endearing and (very) annoying.

"You're just being pessimistic," Peter said, and Sylar gave him a look as if to say, _Yeah, um, kind of obvious, that. _

"Shut up," Peter mumbled, burying his face yet again in Sylar's chest, shaking his head and rubbing his nose against the other man's skin.

_Okay. Is this better?_

Peter smiled. _Yeah, I guess. _Non-committal. Stay cool, Peter, stay cool.

He heard Sylar laugh. _You know I can hear everything you think, right?_

_Stop peeking and kiss me, dumbass._

***

Lyle was surprised to get a call from his sister, Claire, early Thursday morning. Fortunately (or unfortunately, but he tended to try to think positive this early in the day) he had no pressing appointments and so could give Claire his full attention.

His eyebrows slowly rose higher as he listened to the accompanying ums and uhs as Claire tried to explain what she wanted without actually explaining it, and it was only when she had been quiet for about five minutes, that he was able to sort through the garbled explanation and get the general gist of it. It helped that he had experience in sorting through garbled information, he had to admit.

"So," he said slowly, hesitatingly, unsure if the explanation he'd settled on was the right one. "You want me to look over the rough draft of a novel you've writing."

Claire sighed, obviously relieved. "Yes."

"What's it about, exactly?" he asked, wanting to know exactly what he was getting into. He really didn't want to read some mushy romance novel. Shuddering a little at the thought, he tried to concentrate on Claire's mumbled reply.

His heart sank as he caught that dreaded word, _romance. _Good Lord, what was it with girls and romance? It was like some sort of disease passed from mothers to daughters, fed by literature and that ever-present frenzy machine, the media.

And it wasn't like he owed Claire anything. She hadn't been the greatest sister over the years – in fact, she had been downright the worst one at times (he supposed other brothers thought exactly the same thing, but it didn't really help with the matter at hand). So he didn't have to read this romance novel of hers.

He sighed. Of course he had to.

"Fine," he said, pulling the phone away from his ear to save his ear drum from possible damage, due to the piercing squeal Claire made.

She emailed the rough draft to him and he received it almost immediately, opening the attachment and saving it to the folder entitled "Things I Should Get To (But Probably Won't)." He hesitated and then moved it to another folder, this one called simply "Important."

_You're such a pushover, Lyle, _he thought to himself, and then settled into his chair, prepared for a long period of uninterrupted reading. He then thought better of that and went and made himself some popcorn. After that, he sat back down and opened the document.

As he scrolled slowly through the pages, his eyebrows tried to merge with his hairline, they rose so high. _What was this? _Had Claire written what he thought she had?

He gulped, but couldn't help but continue to read it. It was addicting, that's what it was. Surprisingly and for no good reason, of course, but addictive nonetheless. As he read, he absentmindedly fixed a few grammar and punctuations mistakes here and there – unfortunately there weren't enough to deter his attention entirely from the story.

When George held the body of his apparently lifeless enemy and lover Patrick in his arms as rain poured down around them, Lyle was surprised to learn that he was actually crying. He blinked rapidly and wiped off the tears immediately, disgusted with himself. How dare he blubber like...like a girl! It wasn't even that...it wasn't...

He paused. Wait. He reread the last five pages. This sounded oddly familiar...

Lyle went back to the start and, now paying attention to every little detail, he reread his sister's novel.

After finishing the entire thing he sat back. Minutes passed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Well. Wasn't this something.

He wondered what certain people would think if they found out what Claire had written, however covertly, about them, especially in this context. He grinned evilly, but then stopped himself from completing the thought. Even he wasn't that cruel...

...or was he?

Hmm. This required much thought before he could make a viable decision.

***

A week passed. Lyle imagined one path...

_He created an untraceable email address and, using it, sent the rough draft to everyone whose email address he had (well, the ones he considered to be relevant anyway), including his father. _

_He waited._

_One day he received a call from his father, who asked him whether he was free that afternoon. Lyle, wondering if this had anything to do with the email he had sent and already regretting what he'd done, said that he was, and they agreed to meet at one of the Company owned warehouses. _

_Lyle arrived to find not only his father, but also Matt Parkman, Mohinder Suresh, Hiro Nakamura, Ando Masahashi, Micah Sanders, Tracy Strauss and Angela Petrelli (as well as a few others he couldn't remember the names of) there as well. He sighed and now really regretted sending those emails. He felt like hitting his head against a desk. Sadly there were no desks nearby. He settled for surreptitiously banging his head against the wall._

"_You don't think any of it was real?" Matt shifted uncomfortably. If only he could meet the author of such heinous (and untruthful, obviously) works, he would know. Such is the brilliance of telepathy (unless you are purposefully sending deceitful thoughts, he guessed)._

_Mohinder kept his gaze firmly on Noah Bennet. Lyle was reminded of a certain scene in the novel, between the policeman, Morris Perks, and the geneticist, Milo Salazar. He shook his head, smiling a little. Okay, maybe Claire hadn't been totally off her rocker. Anyone with brains (and a lot who didn't) would notice – their relationship was an open secret anyway. It's just...no one ever mentioned it, is all. Especially not in such graphic language._

"_Of course not," Lyle's father said, blustering his way past his obvious embarrassment. "None of it."_

"_Yeah," Tracy said, giving everyone the very suspicious eyeball, as though she thought one of them was responsible for such heinous (and untruthful, obviously) works. "None of it."_

"_And anyway," Matt said, giving everyone a bright grin. "Peter and Sylar aren't together!" He laughed at the very thought and, after a second or two, some of the others joined in. "That's ridiculous!" _

"_Hahaha," everyone said, all of them nervous._

"_...ha," Hiro said, finishing just a bit later. They all turned to look at him._

"_They're not, right?" Mohinder sounded strained._

_There was an uncomfortable silence._

"_Of course not," Lyle's father repeated, giving everyone a reassuring smile. "Of course they're not."_

Lyle blinked. Maybe not. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. What to do, though?

Eventually, he came to a decision. He sent the edited version back to Claire, along with a detailed explanation of why it's not terribly good form to write about supposed relationships between people, and also that maybe she should learn to change the names better. And maybe describe them differently, if she were to actually publish this.

Other than that, he said, it was very good. After a little hesitation, he admitted he might have cried a little at one particular scene.

(And then he emailed two copies of the novel to Peter and Sylar. It gave him a small sense of satisfaction, and they at least wouldn't be telling anyone about it)

***

Peter glanced up from perusing his emails, looking horrified. "Oh god," he whispered. "Claire knows."

Sylar frowned, slipping a finger between pages before he closed the book he was reading and looked over at Peter. "What does she know, pray tell?" Peter usually knew better than to interrupt him while he was reading.

"About us. She knows about us."

"I doubt that very much." He was about to return to his book when Peter beckoned him over. He sighed, closed the book and went over to Peter, who pulled him down onto his lap. "Read," Peter said, pointing at the computer screen.

Sylar did as he was told. For once.

When he was done he glanced up at Peter. "She knows," he said, smirking just a little.

Peter groaned and buried his face in the other man's shoulder.

"Anyone else would think you're ashamed of us," Sylar commented, tone mild.

Peter mumbled something into his shoulder.

"What was that? I didn't hear you."

Peter pulled back to glare at him. "I am not ashamed!"

Sylar smiled and caressed Peter's cheek. "I said," he purred. "_Anyone else_ would think that. Not me," he whispered. "Never me." He stood, turned around and straddled the other man. "Also, I'm going to kill her the next time I see her."

"No, you're not," Peter said.

Sylar smirked. "Not if you ask nicely."

***

Claire woke, gasping for breath.

Oh god.

Was that...?

Did she just dream that Peter and Sylar were in a relationship?

And that she had written a novel about it, and then asked Lyle to edit it?

She shook her head slowly, getting her breathing under control.

Gretchen snuggled up next to her, mumbling something into her shoulder. She relaxed, slowly but surely until her eyelids were too heavily to keep open.

In the morning, sunlight shining through the gap between the curtains, Claire woke abruptly again, this time from a dream involving garlic, steaks and people with fairy wings and pointy teeth. She'd just managed to wrangle the Garlic of Plenty from the Pointy Toothed King, who kept trying to dislodge the Garlic of Plenty by flapping his sparkly pink wings in her face, when Gretchen hit her in the side with her elbow.

She blinked awake slowly, stretching languidly.

And then froze as the other dream she'd had last night started slinking its way into her consciousness. Before she could stop it, a horrified sob escaped her and she buried her head in her pillow.

_Meanwhile..._

Peter frowned. "That wasn't very nice."

Sylar grinned at him as they made their way back to their apartment. "It was fun though."

"I think I preferred you when you were cutting into people's brains," Peter muttered.

Sylar pressed a hand to his chest and feigned a shocked expression. "Bite your tongue, Peter Petrelli!"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Idiot." He pushed Sylar, the movement as deliberate as it was mildly teasing. Sylar stumbled, unprepared, and then, glaring all the while, pushed back.

"You're the idiot."

Peter frowned. "No, you are." He pushed back.

"You are." Push.

"No, you are." Push back.

"You are." Another push, this time with a little bit more strength. Peter stumbled back, only managing to keep himself upright by the fortunate placement of a wall.

"You're the idiot, idiot," Peter growled, but instead of pushing back as Sylar very much suspected he would, he grabbed the front of Sylar's shirt and pulled him close. "Idiot," Peter whispered before closing the remaining distance between them with a kiss.

* * *

**Um. Yeeeeah.**

**Review please. **


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